Eight in the Morning
by Mockingjaybird
Summary: Tan Samuelson was just an average citizen before eight in the morning. After, he was a tribute in the 74th Hunger Games. My take on District Eight's male tribute's Reaping. Written for Kili15645.


**AN: I took the actor, who played the D8 tribute and switched his name around slightly, for anyone who's wondering. Written for Kili15645. I do not own the Hunger Games. Please review!**

…

Someone nudges you awake. Light streams in from the beaten, grimed window, and your bleary, brown eyes squint in the light. "What time is it?" you ask. You feel like you're missing something. Like something's not right.

Your thirteen-year old brother, Caddis, responds, "Eight."

You bolt up in bed. You had work at six-thirty this morning. "Calm down, Tan. The Reaping's today," Caddis replies. "At nine."

You breathe a small sign of relief. You didn't miss work. Missing work as a factory worker would mean no break for the day.

"Is Dad at work?" you ask, getting up from the comfort of your mat.

"Yes, he's supposed to get off in time for the Reaping."

Your father works as a warehouse manager, and even though today's Reaping day, he still has to go in just to compensate for the hours missed. Only twelve through eighteen year olds are excused.

You walk to the bathroom that occupies a small corner of the dull, white-washed room. You feel the shower-head pipe-there are no traces of warmth in it. Looks like a cold shower today. That won't help nerves for sure.

You take off the small t-shirt that clings to your six-foot frame and the oversized sweats that drag in length. The shower lasts more than it's supposed to-ten minutes are the max.

Who could blame you? It may be the last cold shower you'll get in this dump. You get out and put on a plaid, flannel button-down shirt and some pants that are frayed at the bottom. There's a fixed patch in the left knee.

Both you and your brother make the trek out of the run-down housing apartments to the center of town. The air is polluted; smoke still rises from the industrialized families around you.

You're nearly used to it. Seventeen years in District Eight have de-sensitized you to a lot-people on the street, poor conditions in the factory, more hazing than normal by the Peacekeepers. With the largest population in all of Panem, it is chaos to get from one side of the stone square to the other.

You eventually make it over to your designated section just as the announcement of the national anthem begins. The District representative, Chip Wed, a man with deep, unnatural purple locks and a superb leather outfit (made only by the hard labor of District Eight workers), steps up to the microphone. "Welcome. Let's begin, shall we?" He has an accent that seems from a far-away land-persuasive and almost snake-like.

He fishes out a crisp, white piece of paper. "Girls first." He glances at it and says aloud, "Lace Alder."

You know her. She lives on the same floor as you do. She's nice, a year or two younger than you. Average looking with wild, fiery red hair. Conversed with her on your laundry days. Weaver, you believe.

There are a few gasps that go out amongst the crowds, and there's a distinct crying in the back. No one volunteers, and no one is expected to. Even though District Eight is one of the poorest districts in all of Panem, everyone would rather take their chances here than in the Games.

Lace walks up shaking. She is not crying; just looks pale. Chip turns to the second, circular glass bowl positioned on the podium. The boys' bowl.

You take a long, deep inhale as his hand comes out of the bowl and butterflies start in your gut. You didn't think you'd be so nervous as Chip raises the slip to his view. Please, you think, don't let it be me.

"Tan Samuelson, please step forward."

You deflate. You have been chosen.

Somehow you begin to move forward. You don't know how, but something sparks in you. Anger. Sadness. Greed.

Someone calls your name. "Tan!"

You turn around. Caddis has somehow slipped past the all the other groups of possible tributes and Peacekeepers and is striding toward you. What is he doing? The words almost tumble out of his mouth. And if it's what you think it is, you won't let him say it. "I volunt-!"

"Shut up!" You slap a hand over his mouth; hold him in half a hug. You lean down to his ear, as his head comes up to your shoulder. "Don't be stupid; you've got a life ahead of you."

You see that the Peacekeepers are closing near. "Be good, yeah?"

You let him go, and turn back on your heel, leaving him in the dust. You swallow your fears. There's no point in crying, or feeling sad anymore. You take it like a man, and take your place up on the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present you District Eight's tributes!" As people clap, letting the tension in the air disappear, you take in what you just did.

You have taken the spot instead of your brother. You have just been drafted into the Hunger Games. Your mind whirls. Will you be smart enough? How long could you survive? The competition? All you know is that you've got enough strength.

As the Peacekeepers usher you down the steps, you have one fleeting thought: strength may not get you through it-you could die; and at eight this morning, you were not a tribute in the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. You were an average citizen.


End file.
